the soft skedaddle of birds
  across a sky as daft as a painted bruise

  the sun's contusion
  glimpsed between windows,
  between clouds like pale drapes

  lassitude lassitude
  and the great weight of the sky's basin

  blood comes to the surface
  and blooms
  in the thin spring
  as if it were wet petal

  a tally of fingers
  counting the tattoo of the stars
  while I'm flat out
  on the surface of myself

  ribbons of breeze
  tickertape like rain
  the squander of moments

  come under the umbrella

  I'd like to play several tunes
  inside you
  these empty empty hours
  trombone and cello

  as blue as the spillikins of light
  that fall to our feet
  our bare feet
  trespassing across the open fields
  beneath the unblinking
  height of the same same sky

  the sun is a plum at dusk

From the book Love Poems